A prayer

I hear the chanting
And always the pine glows,
The black smoke ,curling, towards heaven,
The chanting and pure white robes,
Chanting, and a family,
As pure today as sprinkled water,
Know their holy pictures,
Pain and turmoil,
And how long lost ages wept,
Toiled the earth.
The white flowing priest
Pains inside and chants and prays
And he too remembers
The nostrils sting, from incense smoke
Old and sweet,
Then from the pine
The eyes water, drops
Of sea spray remained.

They stare, soft, deep,
And again the chanting,
The garlands on necks of ebony
Clad with gold
And flowers strewn.
Slightly noticed.
The white garmented priest
Entwining the flames, prays,
Chanting rituals, still fresh
Out of the flames,
Away lead the flowing wedding garments
And tears fall like dew upon the new morn,
And joy filled
Their backs are turned,
And in the golden temple-the parents
Sit.
The white garments tend a dying fire,
Remembers the pains
And the curling smoke
Stings the eyes to tears.

The white garments , as neat and pure
As the first lotus flower untouched
Lie within the pyre
Watching over a placid ocean,
And this; the ship to return-
Home.
The island is aged now.
The indentured in fine woven suits
Climb the hill, slow and worn
And the fire, like a great spirit rises,
Embers chanting.
Black smoke billowing across the ocean
And the chanting now
Of flames, and frantic minds searching out
Forgotten chants and the language,
And sweat under a scorching midday sun,
And ships
And black smoke burns the eye,
The white robe flows tears,
And the fire, in chanting of sparks
Makes its answer.



Poetry by vidura rambachan
Read 73 times
Written on 2023-03-28 at 08:37

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